Hygiene Theater
by Cold Steel Night
Summary: Oneshot: Light finds that an act as simple as washing one's hands can be so much more than proper hygiene. Implied LightxL


**Title:** Hygiene Theater

**Author:** Cold Steel Night

**Rating:** G, for nice happy fluffiness. And strawberries.

**Summary:** Raito finds that an act as simple as washing one's hands can be so much more than proper hygiene. RaitoxL

And I realize that "Raito" is properly Romanized as "Light," but Raito looks prettier. So hush.

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The most fascinating thing about L—Ryuuzaki—Ryuuga Hideki—_'Damnit'_—was how he washed his hands.

There were times when Raito was content to watch the world-renowned detective, simply watch, no overly analytical thinking involved. He didn't have to wonder _why_ the young man made every move that he did. He could appreciate the contraction of muscle against bone, the electrical messages of motor neurons being processed, the graceless elegance for what it was.

L washing his hands was one of those moments. An act so simple was made a ritual in those too-wide, black eyes.

L constantly washed his hands; it wasn't quite as noticeable as his numerous other quirks, like his penchant for sweets or his inability to completely straighten his legs, but if one thought about it, it made sense. L was obviously very careful with the way he held things, only touching them with as much of his hands as was necessary. Raito, in his effort to rationalize this, reached the conclusion that L had formed this habit himself, froman aversion to leaving fingerprints. If he thought even _deeper_ into it, fingerprints were the most obvious way to attain a person's identity, and no one was more cautious about their identity—identit_ies—_than L. And since L always had his thumb or forefinger in his mouth—when it wasn't occupied by candies, cake, or tea/coffee so sweet it might as well be syrup—it would be wisest to have those fingers clean. Raito noticed that L never seemed to fall ill, and suspected this to be the main reason. Though he had yet to see the day L lapsed into a diabetic coma. The sugar addict was just _asking_ for it.

The water was turned on, the knob tweaked by unpredictable spider-fingers, and one hand collected soap as the other collected water. The two met, and very nearly danced underneath the calm and steady fall of tap water. Suds formed, the soap and water mixture greedily trapping air, and the ten almost-white twigs were shrouded in bubbles of all sizes. They pulled away from the flow of water and continued to slide against one another, each assuring that its partner had no area left unattended, until both appendages were satisfied with their cleanliness and returned to the life-giving liquid, which welcomed them graciously. It flowed over, across, around, between—covering all areas of the two bony hands as was possible, taking the playful bubbles with it and disappearing into the blatantly shiny form of the drain. It loudly contrasted the sharp white of the porcelain encasing it, and the bubbles, who had known only the softness of human flesh and the eternal caress of water, seemed reluctant to hand their fate over to the cold metal. But the water assured them, proved to them that the drain meant them no harm, even went so far as to fearlessly enter the bright metal itself, and the bubbles soon followed. The water was finally allowed to cease its movement with the turn of the same knob that had started this affair, and the hands glided through the air, resting only when they had reached the clean, white towel a few feet away. They assisted one another once more, like ever-attendant siblings, and made sure that no water remained, gave the liquid to the eagerly receiving cloth of the towel. Their job was soon completed, and light brown eyes followed their path, to either side of a wrinkled pair of blue jeans that would have been mistaken for empty if they hadn't been standing vertically. The eyes decided it was highly unwise to remain upon those jeans any longer, and finally flicked up to the owner of the pieces of art that most humans called "hands."

"You watch my hands like I watch strawberries, Raito-kun," the dreamy voice commented amicably, with the shadow of a laugh hiding behind the wall of cluelessness. Creamy brown hit stark, solid black and bounced off. Raito abruptly looked elsewhere, despising with all his might the heat he felt in his face.

He didn't see the hopeful smile that played upon pale lips before they formed more words. "Yagami-san and the others will be waiting for us, I believe." And without further ado, the world's three greatest detectives shuffled from the room, hunched over as always. Raito followed before the chain connecting them could force him to do so, and felt an irrational urge to pout as L put his hands in his pockets.

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L/Raito has got to be the best pairing ever. Teehee. And though this wasn't very obvious in its slash-ness, I hope to evolve to that stage. So any help is appreciated!


End file.
